


An Encounter While Breaking Out of Prison

by amadscientistapproaches



Series: Drifting Dimensions [2]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Dreams, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Portal Mabel, Portal Stan!, Sadness and grief, They all have issues, and it shows, and now with additional, but I love him, cuddles and crying, diptember2018, help the feelings got to me, or nightmares really, poor guy, portal ford
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 16:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15147479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amadscientistapproaches/pseuds/amadscientistapproaches
Summary: The routine's pretty familiar to Mabel. They land in another dimension, there's some people waiting for them, it turns out Ford's upset them at some point, he's arrested, yadda yadda yadda, then it's time for her to perfect their escape!Only, she doesn't usually get injured.She especially doesn't usually get drugged.And she has never looked at her uncle and seen two of him.You don't have to have read the previous part of the series to read this one, so feel free not to. To those that do, this is a small adventure occurring after Multiverse is a Curse Word. The story is far from over!





	1. The Not-Bro

Once again, Grunkle Ford had done something in the past that had made people angry and now Mabel was having to get them out of a tight spot. What would he do without her?

This would take some thinking.

The planet they had appeared on was kind of like Earth. It was a little more advanced, and there were a few things Mabel saw every now and then that made her go _whaaaat?_ but on the whole, it was pretty similar. Moreover, everyone she had seen so far was human.

As a matter of fact, everyone she had seen so far was also a police officer. She wasn’t really liking any of them.

They’d arrested Ford and taken him to a holding cell immediately upon arriving at this building. Mabel had been escorted to some sort of break room with a lock on the door. They hadn’t put any handcuffs on her, but until the officer in charge of her had locked the door, he had maintained a tight grip on her shoulder. Now, she was sitting in an admittedly comfy chair at a table near a wall. There were a few cheerful mugs in a cupboard above it, a sink near the back of the room, and some sort of fancy-schmancy microwave looking thing plugged into the wall at her end of the table. She was already eyeing it for possible use as a weapon. It looked pretty hefty.

For some reason, they hadn’t searched her, so she still had her grappling hook. The microwave could still be useful though. She was beginning to like the idea of how she might be able to describe her escape to her uncle later.

“Mabel? Are you listening?”

Oops.

She focused back on the lawyer guy who had come in soon after her.

“Yes!” She said brightly.

The lawyer looked at her doubtfully. “I don’t think you were,”

“Well I was,”

“Could you tell me why I’m talking to you, then?”

Mabel was starting to dislike him more and more. What was she, five?

“Weeeeell, I may not have caught that last bit, but I think you _did_ say something about how-” she made a mock-serious face and deepened her voice – “‘Stanford Pines does not provide an appropriately nurturing and safe environment for a nice young lady such as myself to live in’,”

The lawyer guy frowned a bit at that. “Yes. And as he has committed felonies in multiple dimensions before finally being arrested in this one, where he will be convicted and sent to jail very shortly-” Mabel wasn’t inclined to believe him – “it is my job to find some new people to take care of you,”

Mabel’s stomach dropped.

_Oh. That’s why I stopped listening to him._

Mabel put her elbow on the table and tried to adopt a cocky expression like she had seen on Grunkle Stan’s face whenever he’d tried to talk his way out of something with the cops.

“I bet your job would be a _lot_ easier if you just let my grunkle go. I mean, think about it! You wouldn’t have to do any boring paperwork, you wouldn’t have to find people to take me, yadda yadda. Hey! Maybe you should just let _me_ go to prison as well!”

The lawyer did not seem convinced. _Dang it._

“Mabel, you do know you can’t take care of yourself, don’t you?” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken.

Mabel frowned in disagreement.

“Your guardian is going to prison-”

“Well, I mean, _hopefully_ he’s not going to be there for very long,” muttered Mabel.

“-and quite frankly, your living situation up until now-”

“- _was_ pretty safe and nurturing until you and your police friends showed up,” she finished as politely as possible.

The lawyer looked a little annoyed at that.

Suddenly, sirens started wailing through the complex. The police officers who had been supervising looked concerned and hurried out into the hallway, the door locking again with a click behind them.

Well. If there was one thing Mabel knew, it was how to _seize the moment!_

(Or the microwave!)

She yanked the box out of the wall and threw it as hard as she could at the lock.

How to _carpe that day!_

She’d been getting stronger since she’d come through the first portal from Gravity Falls, and it was worth it. Near the handle, the door sparked and sizzled, and then simply swung open.

How to _diem_ the _heck_ out of an _opportunity!_

Leaping up from the table amidst a surprised cry from the lawyer about how nice young ladies shouldn’t do that, she sprinted out into the corridor, the sound of alarms letting her know that Ford had most likely made his escape. Later, they’d probably ride off into the sunset on the back of whatever the equivalent of a horse was in this dimension.

⃝

Ford was about ready to kick the door down when the alarms started blaring, magnetic sealing be damned. He did not know why they had started up, and he did not care. All that mattered was getting out and getting Mabel back, because he had been waiting, stomach churning at the thought of her being taken to child services or the equivalent, for far too long. She had already lost too much to be dragged away from the people who loved her yet again. And so had he.

That was _not_ going to happen. Neither he nor Mabel would let it.

The sirens most likely meant that she had already escaped. The thought made him happy; there was nothing that could contain that girl.

A click and a beep from the door signalled that it was opening.

“Alright, let’s go. Until we get this sorted out I’m taking you to a more secure location,” said the officer who came through.

Ford disagreed.

⃝

Mabel’s grappling hook thudded into the ceiling, swinging her neatly over a troop of – fairly incompetent, she was starting to think – police officers. She dropped and rolled as she hit the ground behind them, taking off running before they realised what had happened.

She wasn’t even out of breath yet, she realised with a wild grin. Not only that, but she wasn’t afraid either. She had been in far scarier situations over the past several months, and these guards weren’t even using lethal weapons. The most she had to do was keep moving, keep her wits about her, and keep looking for her uncle.

She wished there was a sign or something that pointed the way to the holding cells.

“How the hell can you have _failed_ to capture a thirteen-year-old girl?!” She heard an angry voice demand from a hallway up ahead. “What do you _mean_ she had a grappling hook?! Okay, just, shut up, we have bigger problems to worry about-”

A crackle from a radio. _“Sir! Sir, it’s Pines, he’s gone! It must be a jailbreak, there’s a whole crowd of them running around looking for the others we arrested!”_

“Are you kidding me?”

A jailbreak? That was weird. Had someone helped Ford escape?

She could puzzle about that later. Right now, there was a stairwell at the end of the corridor with her name on it. The only reason she wasn’t hurtling towards it right now was because the police officer in the adjoining hallway might see her if she did.

_What would Dipper do?_

Well, he’d probably be smart about it. Alright, so how could she be smart about it? She could . . . cause some distraction to lead him away, and then make a break for it! Mabel grinned until she realised she had nothing to cause a distraction with. Okay then. She could wait and see if the police officer would leave by himself! But that was pretty risky. He could come back her way, and then he’d see her _and_ be blocking her escape.

Fine then.

The Mabel way it was.

She took a deep breath and stepped right up to the edge of the hallway, readying herself to fly past it towards the stairs as quick as possible. Who knew? He might not see her at all. She could just be _that_ good. Yeah. She probably was.

Mabel made her first step at the exact same time the officer came around the corridor.

⃝

It had barely taken two minutes for Ford to reclaim his gear. He ran through the building, doing his best to avoid squads of officers.

The alarms cut off, and he heard shouting up ahead, like orders being given. They were harsh, impatient, and very different to the way he had heard the police here speak to each other.

He tightened his grip on his gun and moved cautiously forward, nearing one of the wider main corridors.

It sounded like the people were travelling away, spreading out to search the place. Ford waited a beat, then stepped around the corner. There was one person remaining, back facing him, checking over the weapon in his hands. Ford heard him grumble and mutter something unflattering about the people who had left him a stun gun of all things.

 _That makes things easier,_ Ford mused.

He shook out his wrist for a moment, then stepped up to him, considering the amount of pressure he would need to apply for a choke-hold. He must have made a miniscule sound.

The man whipped around gun raised, Ford exacting the movement barely a millisecond behind, fully intending to fire an incapacitating shot that would ensure he could get away, but then –

\- then they saw each other’s faces.

“Holy shit,” the other man breathed. Ford stared in shock.

He had been an interdimensional traveller for thirty years. It was unlikely, but not impossible, that he would encounter other versions of himself in that time.

He wished this was one of those times.

“Ford?” Stan asked.

There was silence, stillness, not even disturbed by breathing.

Ford fired.

So did Stan.

The bolts collided in mid-air, showering the hallway with blue sparks, flashing into blinding non-existence.

_What the hell were the odds of that happening?_

Ford shifted his aim from his brother’s – _no, not his brother’s, NOT his brother’s_ – shoulder to his thigh, which would probably cause more damage, but if Stan wasn’t alone here then he would fine, he could get help easil-

Stan had targeted his forehead. Ford froze.

“Jeez, it’s always shoot first, ask questions later with you, isn’t it?” Stan snorted.

It was only a stun gun, but regardless, a shot to the head would knock him out for several hours and he could not afford that, not when he needed to find Mabel. He doubted even Addi could recover quickly fro-

He wrenched himself out of his thoughts.

_Stall._

“You shot at the same time as me,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, but I asked a question first,”

Ford restrained himself from rolling his eyes with difficulty. It did not seem to fool Stan, who grinned.

“So what are you doing here, bro?”

“You’re not my brother,”

Stan’s face did not move an inch away from that easy expression. It did not move at all.

“So what are you doing here, not-bro?” he said.

“Escaping,” said Ford through gritted teeth, furiously trying to think of a way to get out of the situation.

“What a coincidence. You’re heading the wrong way though.” Ford knew his expression gave nothing away, he _knew_ it. Stan drew the right conclusion anyway. “You looking for someone? Bet I could help,”

“No,” Ford said instantly.

“You sure? I got some buddies that could make the job a lot easier than just you by yourself.” When Ford continued to glare at him resolutely, Stan shrugged. “Alright, fine. I guess that’s how you prefer things, isn’t it? Alone?”

Stan was still grinning comfortably, but now there was something sharper in the gleam of his eye. Ford said nothing, tensing more with every passing moment.

“Well, if there’s no one you wanna pick up, let’s go,” Stan said finally.

“What?”

“I got some buddies to slip away from and the price on your head is getting bigger every day, so let’s move it, nerd.” He jerked his head sideways, at the corridor Ford had just come from.

“You’re a bounty hunter,” Ford realised, unsure why he was surprised. Fear spread coldly through him.

_Bill Cipher set those wanted posters you’re not safe he’s working for him –_

“No idea what you mean,”

“You’re not taking me anywhere!”

“Hope is nice, but after a while it’s just a delusion. Now hurry up, someone’s gonna be here soon,”

Ford fingered his trigger warningly. “Move out of my way or you’re down a leg,”

“Ehhh,” Stan said doubtfully, “I don’t think so. I’d still be able to walk, and _you_ would be unconscious before you got to see what happened next. Face it, Ford: you either turn around and start walking, or you shoot me, I shoot you, and then I drag you out.”

Ford readied himself to spring out the way, hand tightening on the gun’s grip. He _was not leaving._

Stan cocked his head a little, eyes flicking back to the junction of halls. Ford heard it too.

Footsteps, light and fast. More, following, heavier and faster. Wordlessly, both men swung their weapons around to the new threat, putting their own quandary on hold temporarily.

⃝

The officer looked down in surprise as he bumped into Mabel. Then his eyes widened, and he tried to grab her.

Mabel dodged with a yelp, twisting out of reach. The movement sacrificed her balance however, and she had to take a second to regain her footing before trying to sprint away. Her boots squeaked on the floor, but a hand was grabbing her coat and hauling her backwards.

A surge of cold adrenaline poured into her veins like ice water. She lashed out but her wrist was caught in a tight grip. A wordless yell erupted from her, and she wrenched her grappling hook hand up so fast she could feel the G-force. Pulling the trigger, the disc clanged into the stairwell door so hard that it swung open, and almost at the same time Mabel was clicking the trigger again, and then she was ripped out of the grip of whoever had her, arm yanking painfully, her feet flying off the floor as she shot –

\- towards a wall.

Lights burst into being behind her eyes and it was a few seconds before she realised she was on her hands and knees, her shoulder and neck aching, her head splitting. She couldn’t see through tears in her eyes and she dimly heard the door close with a sound that seemed far too soft compared to the ringing in her very _being._

What was happening, again?

She clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, not even able to breathe through the pain. There was a roaring in her ears.

What was she...?

The lights in her head dimmed a little. She drew in a quick breath, testing the waters. The sensation didn’t overload her, like everything else was. She took another, and another, getting back under control, the pain in her head lessening from a continuous pressure on her brain until it was only throbbing with every beat of her heart.

There was another thudding sound. Footsteps. Beyond the door.

She opened her eyes.

That was important. Seeing was good, she needed to see, she needed to be on the lookout because she – she was running from some people, people who wanted to take her away.

Her grappling hook was by her hand, ready to fire again if needed. Mabel raised her head a little.

What was she doing, again?

_Go NOW._

Something made her clutch at the gun and stumble to her feet, a blurry and muddled wash of urgency that compelled her to move no matter what. There were steps under her feet, her boots meeting them one after the other, faster and faster. She didn’t know how she wasn’t falling over.

Mabel’s knees almost buckled when suddenly there wasn’t another step to go down. She trailed her free hand on the wall, using it as a slight brace, and forced herself to keep heading forwards. Where was she going? She wished Dipper was with her. He’d know what was going on.

She pushed through another swinging door. Was there someone behind her? She was so _sore_. Where was Grunkle Ford? He’d know what was going on. Why wasn’t he . . . there was a word, on the tip of her tongue. Super-something. Well, he was definitely super-great. He knew every single thing ever, and he was _especially_ good at helping the pain go away. Where was he? He should be, like, supervising her.

There were definitely footsteps behind her. They were getting closer.

 _Nonononno._ That was bad, that was really bad, and she couldn’t move any faster. Where was her uncle, she wanted her uncles so badly, and they weren’t here . . .

She was shaking and gasping and she fumbled at a door handle and shouldered it open. She felt like she might be able to run.

 _I mean, I definitely feel like I_ should _be running, so that’s kind of the same thing._

She picked up her pace, noticing this hall was a lot wider. Her head was thumping and hurting even more, and she heard a shout behind her. She went faster, now almost at a full run. Her eyes and nose were starting to hurt. What the heck?

“Why, body . . .” she moaned, her voice sounding too loud in her ears. There was something wet on her collar and neck, and a tickle near her ear.

There was another large hallway, intersecting up ahead. If she could just get to that, she would be safe. She didn’t know how she knew, but she would be.

Something _tinged_ off the wall to her left, and she veered to the right, seeing the glint of metal, like a flash, like a laser, like it had sizzled right by her, like there was a control panel up ahead she needed to stab with a sword and the security guard behind her was gaining and she –

\- swung herself around the corner, didn’t jump, didn’t stab, because that wasn’t where she was anymore, that was in the past, and _there wasn’t anything she could have done_ –

\- and she stopped, gasping for breath and ready to collapse, but she wasn’t scared any more. She’d made it. And there were her uncles.

Another _ting_ , and something pricked her leg.

⃝

Mabel appeared around the corner, out of breath.

Ford flinched, vigorously jerking the barrel away from her. Stan’s response was more measured: he raised an eyebrow at Mabel and glanced briefly at Ford, but other than that did not change his stance. Ford was tempted to tackle him to get him to stop aiming at her, but something more important drew his attention.

Mabel was bleeding.

From a head wound.

The red was in her hair, on her collar, a small trickle down her jaw. All of a sudden it was like she was caught in a time-field, every detail becoming apparent to him as it all slowed: her deep breaths, the forward sway of her hair as she stopped.

The wound would have been rather horrifying if he had not been fairly accustomed to seeing and experiencing similar things. Head injuries always appeared as though they bled much more than they should, so whatever it looked like, it was not as grievous as it seemed. He knew how to treat it, and he had seen Mabel bleed far more. In fact, by comparison to some things, the amount was barely a splash! She was going to be _fine._ In addition, he doubted he had ever known her to not have scrapes and bruises on her person from some adventure or other. Mabel was someone at whom injury looked at, sighed, and exasperatedly visited daily, and as a result she had a toughness and a determination that rivalled even the Pinesiest of Pineses.

He still itched to hug her close and not let go for an unreasonable amount of time.

Ford processed all this in barely a second before one more thing caught his attention.

She was unsteady, her eyes unfocused and vacant. She did not look confused in the least to find Ford side by side with Stan of all people, not to mention at all worried about the gun still being held on her.

_Oh shit. Does she have a concussion?_

Ford instantly rejected his initial thought about it not being serious and felt his heart start to race. Was there swelling? How long had she been hurt? Where _exactly_ was the trauma?

_How the hell did this happen?_

Like some higher power had heard his question, time sped up again. Another person appeared around the corner, wearing the uniform of a police officer and mid- angry shout for Mabel to stop.

Ford’s gun came up, flashing with blue light and a pulse of sound and the officer dropped, gasping, clutching his shoulder. Ford did not feel much remorse.

“Are you alright?” he asked, mustering up a smile for Mabel, who smiled back. She was safe. He would take a look at her injury, she would tell him an exciting and probably embellished story about how she got it, and everything would be absolutely fine.

Mabel opened her mouth to reply. Behind her, the officer’s arm moved.

_Ting._

“Oh,” Mabel said dazedly, looking at her leg. Like it was magnetically attached, Ford’s gaze followed. A small metal dart was embedded innocently through the thigh of her pants.

“Woooo, that feels _weird,_ ” Mabel grinned at him again, swaying with even more emphasis than before.

“You _didn’t_ ,” Ford said to the officer in disbelief. The man had just enough time to look afraid, but before Ford could even begin to stride forwards, he was nailed in the face with a jet of light, rocked, and then went motionless.

 _Oh, yes._ Him.

Ford spared a glare at Stan, got one back, and then returned his attention to Mabel.

⃝

“Mabel sweetheart, I need you to look at me,” Ford urged.

If Stan was surprised at the appearance of a random kid on the scene (which was already pretty unexpected), that was nothing to how he felt when he heard that all hostility had completely vanished from Ford’s voice, leaving only a forced sort of calm and authoritative tinge that told him quite plainly his brother was freaking out. And then _that_ was nothing to the way this kid (this tiny, drugged, injured, probably concussed, somehow _not_ scared kid) giggled as though Ford was being silly, and turned to Stan.

His surprise reached new heights at the way she was looking at him. He’d never thought the word _beaming_ could ever so accurately describe the way a person’s face might light up. The sheer joy there was like he was her hero. Like he’d hung the stars in the sky for her or something just as amazing. It was like she _loved_ him.

So yeah, all in all, this day was turning out pretty strangely.

The girl stumbled toward him, legs shakier by the second. Stan definitely did not envy how she was going to feel in a few hours' time. She looked up at him, her eyes struggling to focus, and took a breath to say something. It must’ve been important, going from the amount of effort she had to expend to keep her eyes open. Stan found himself leaning in to hear better.

“Ya beard’s funny, Gunk Stan.” She slurred. “S’Like you’ve gotta face on y’r cloud,”

Then she passed out.

Okay. Stan liked her.

He quickly grabbed her upper arm before she fell to the floor, then holstered the stunner and lifted her up properly. It wasn’t like he was just going to leave a kid lying on a prison floor, after all. Especially not one that had . . . well, sort of. Not really. Come on, he couldn’t just be swayed by a little- by a huge smile from a _very_ dazed girl who probably hadn’t been thinking straight and who had referred to him by a nonsense title. He’d been out in this uncaring multiverse for thirty years! What was he supposed to do if a tiny kid with a cute sweater and a – grappling hook? – could stop him in his tracks so easily? Not that she had. At all.

He looked down at her and saw that she had curled up in his arms as unconsciously as she had kept a tight grip on the grappling hook.

There was no avoiding it. She had definitely made a little burrow in his gnarled old heart.

Turning, he saw Ford standing stock-still.

His brother was attempting to burn a hole through him with his eyes alone, which was kind of the only option he had left – seeing as how there was no way he’d be shooting Stan with the kid in the way.

He figured he’d hold onto her for a little while longer.

“Give her to me _now_ Stan,” Ford said in a low voice.

 _Whaddaya know, Sixer’s learned how to be scary_ , Stan thought with a modicum of pride.

He pretended to consider, then shook his head. “Nah. Y’know, I’d say all the usual – congratulations, she looks just like you, et cetera, but to be honest, she’s more like Shermy. Or Ma.” He frowned, taking the girl’s features in. “A little different to them, too, though.”

“I said _hand her over_ , Stan.” His brother’s voice was rising. That wasn’t good; they’d been here too long as it was. It was a miracle no one else had come across them yet.

“How about we get out of here, huh? Then we can waste time talking.” Stan made for the junction, scanned it quickly both ways to check it was empty, then turned right, heading for the nearest exit. Hopefully they could slip away down an alley before anyone noticed them – including the team that was almost certainly waiting for the jailbreakers to bring him out. He grinned as he thought of their expressions when they realised he’d gotten away yet again.

“Stanley, for God’s sake, I need to see her! She’s hurt!”

“Relax, Sixer, the champions of the law here wouldn’t put anything harmful in their tranquilisers,”

Even while he was several steps in front, he could sense Ford’s seething. “I understand that fine. I’m starting to think _you_ don’t realise the exceptional amount of danger that comes of a child being _unconscious_ with a _concussion_ ,”

Okay. That was a good point.

“I’ve got a good friend who we can go see. Guarantee she’ll be able to help with whatever.” Stan could see the exit point, conveniently unguarded. He checked left and right once more, then sped over to it. Locked. Well, not everything could be perfect.

He carefully adjusted the kid so he was holding her with one arm, then pulled out a card he had swiped from some high-up officer. Pressing it against the scanner, and praying to no one in particular that it was of a high enough clearance not to be questioned, he waited until it beeped and went green.

“ _That’s_ how ya do it!” He crowed.

“Stan, _please_!”

He had to admit, he hadn’t thought he’d hear that from Ford. He turned to look at him.

Ford glared back determinedly. “I’ll go with you, whatever you want, just _please_ let her go,”

The choice of words rattled him. Not “give her back” or something else along those lines, which was fair enough, he could understand that. Instead, Ford had said “let her go”, like the most important thing to him at the moment wasn’t having the kid with him: it was having her _away_ from Stan. Which hurt more than he’d ever care to admit.

His brother was shaking slightly. It was almost imperceptible, but he could still see it. More than that, Ford had been ready to get into a fistfight with him before the kid appeared, but since then he hadn’t made a single hostile move.

Shit. He was afraid of him. Hiding it well behind a good, furious, mask, but once Stan knew it was there, it was easy to see past.

_He doesn’t actually think I’d do something to her, does he?_

Stan felt cold.

“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” he answered after a moment.

Judging by the speed with which Ford got his arms under the kid’s knees and back, practically snatching her away, he’d been right on all counts. Suddenly, he didn’t really feel like taking them with him.

But he had to eat somehow, and the money the bounty on Ford was worth would pay for more than enough meals including whatever else he needed for a good while.

Thankfully, his brother didn’t seem to have noticed his unusual silence, as he was busy gently tilting his kid so her head rolled to face him and he could examine her cut. Stan got back to business.

“Alright, all your commands fulfilled, my liege? Then let’s get out of here,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've wanted to write some Portal Stan for a while, and this series seemed like the perfect place to do it in! I'll be going into more detail next chapter, but things are definitely not okay between Stan and Ford, as you could probably tell. I thought that if they were to meet, the only way they could be convinced to get along, at least functionally, would be for Mabel's sake.


	2. A Glimpse of the Other Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't originally plan to have a Dipper and Stan chapter in this fic (I was saving it for a later one in the series) but then Diptember happened and I wanted to start introducing some plot points as well, so Week 1: Dreams was a good opportunity to do so!

Gritty grey dirt spilled and shifted underfoot, flecks flicking up into the air easily against a backdrop of an equally grey sky and spiralling away into the slipstream of the two running figures. Their boots thudded into the ground, sliding, unable to get a good grip on the soft silt. They tore across it anyway, into the distance, heading for an impossibly far horizon.

A great line of green fire split the scene.

It streaked perpendicular to their path across the grey field, the larger of the two figures raising an arm to cover his head as it shot past him like a bullet train, the eyes of the girl at his side wincing shut at the brightness in front of her, and it went on, the ground coming up to meet it before it could hit its far away target. A spray of dirt was launched a hundred feet into the air. The sound reached the figures not long after, a shriek of a whistle, deafening, the girl clapping her hands over her ears to block it out.

And another bolt came afterwards. It hit behind them in an explosion of black-flecked sand. Another screamed over their heads, from the opposite direction, a retaliation, the blazing trade-offs continuing up and down the field.

_Mabel-!_

She was getting tired, she was running out of breath, fighting to keep her legs moving against the uncooperative surface. Her eyes periodically widened with terror, reflecting green light, then clenched shut again as a giant jagged beam passed close, instinctively turning her head away.

_Keep going you have to keep going!_

Her foot caught in a particularly soft drift and sank into it. She stumbled and pitched forwards.

 _OH, NOW_ THAT _DOESN’T LOOK GOOD!_

A hand reached out and grabbed the back of her coat, six fingers fisting into the material and yanking her up again.

_HAHA! GOOD OL’ SIXER TO THE RESCUE!_

_Please help her please help her please get out of there PLEASE!_

The crossfire continued to rain sideways around them.

_IT’S NOT LOOKING GOOD, KID! I WOULDN’T GET YOUR HOPES UP._

Another shower of ashen grains, the closest explosion yet, more or less a wall of dirt rising up out of the ground and dumping over them in a flood, catching in their eyes, their mouths, their hair, their skin, working its way into the smallest gap in their clothes. His sister’s hand came wildly through it, managing to latch onto his uncle’s by sheer luck, grasping it as tight as she could.

_THERE’S NO WAY IT COULD GET WORSE, RIGHT?_

The dusty particles cleared for the most part, hovering in the air, ready to breathe in. The lights and lasers ceased for a moment. The ground started to tremble, causing minute avalanches in the miniature sand dunes. The vibration was everywhere.

**_WRONG!_ **

A sudden suction seemed to overtake the ground under them, the dead soil collapsing downwards like water through a drain in sections everywhere over the battle zone. His family’s shouts couldn’t be heard over a massive mechanical grating, whirring, whining permeating across the entire field, _under_ the entire field.

_MovemovemoveMabelmove!_

She did, in unison with the uncle he’d never met, but it was far too late. An enormous machine broke the surface, spinning points rising up, uprooting the ground far more than the lasers ever could have. Mabel and Stanford were surrounded by a fortress of clanking grey towers, contorting with great _thunks_ into the largest weapon he’d ever seen and no matter how secure a hold his uncle might have of his sister there was no way they could get away from whatever this was. They were caught in its inner workings, metal spreading in blocks, moving around them in chunks, closing and encroaching all around them, blocking out what little light there was section by section until there’d be none left and they’d be trapped in the darkness forever or crushed or burnt up in whatever the machine was designed to do –

“MABEL!”

Dipper snapped into consciousness already sitting up, breathing hard, sweating and on the verge of tears, the dream refusing to go away, every detail still present in his mind in horrifyingly high definition. Bill’s laughs continuing to echo loudly around in his head until he was fully awake. The monochrome colours washed away. The room was clear and silent and . . . empty.

He was awfully alone in the attic.

Sobs escaped him as he shakily pulled himself out of his bed and over to the other vacant one. He clutched at the sheets and pillows and cold stuffed animals that hadn’t been played with in about a month, wishing, _wishing_ so hard his heart ached that his sister was in their place. It was dark, and the burning in his eyes made it hard to see, so he could almost pretend that she was still there . . .

. . . but she wasn’t.

Dipper buried his face in the sheets, slumping to his knees. He’d learned by now that he couldn’t keep it in. He had to let it out, or it would rip him to pieces and explode out of him at the worst times, these thoughts. These thoughts about how he didn’t know where Mabel was, how no one did, how she could be hurt, or worse, how anything could have happened, how he might never see her again, how the dreams Bill kept sending him could be true, how they might even be watered down versions of the truth: what if something much worse was happening? What if Stanford was dead after all? What if Mabel was alone?

It almost left him paralysed.

Gradually, the rest of the world filtered back into his perception. The feel of the sheets under his face, the softness of whatever animal he’d gripped. The snuffles and grunts of Waddles nearby. The wind blowing through the rafters, the woods, the night air. His own cries settling down into something more manageable.

But not completely.

He was wide awake, and determined to stay that way until it was unavoidable. Unfortunately, he’d been desperately – almost non-stop – pouring over blueprints for the portal with Stan and McGucket for the past few days/weeks, and even the insistent panic hovering over him wasn’t enough to drown his exhaustion.

Why couldn’t he just _get a grip?_

He gritted his teeth but the urge to _move_ to do _something_ to not be _useless_ was overwhelming him again.

He needed to know that his family – or what was left of it – was still okay.

Wiping his eyes on the blanket, Dipper stumbled to his feet and made his way resignedly to the door, tracing a path that had become a habit about two weeks ago, around the time when the last of his residual anger had drained away, leaving him feeling little more than scared.

He walked quietly down the steps to Stan’s room, avoiding the creaking floorboards. When he blearily reached out to put a hand on the doorhandle, he realised he was still holding Mabel’s toy.

He stared at it, then shrugged, putting the smiling pink axolotl under his arm. _I guess I_ could _use a friend now. Even if they aren’t human. Or able to speak. Or even alive._ He sighed, and squeezed it.

Usually, Stan would be snoring. Tonight, he wasn’t. As Dipper pushed open the door, sharp, quick grunts reached his ears. The curtains on the window were open, and by the twilight Dipper could see his uncle tossing uncomfortably, a deep frown on his face, the sheets twisted around him and his fingers clenching arrhythmically into fists. He was having a nightmare.

“Grunkle Stan?” Dipper said loudly, immediately coming into the room.

Stan eyes instantly shot open and one hand suddenly had a sturdy grip on the baseball bat he kept beside his bed and it was raised and ready to attack in a split second.

“Whoa! It’s just me!” Dipper exclaimed, holding up his hands and almost dropping the axolotl while he was at it. He recovered it just in time, though.

“ _Dipper?!_ ” came Stan’s incredulous, hoarser-than-usual voice. His eyes went wide, and the bat fell from his grasp. “What’re you _thinking?_ ”

“Wh- I – I thought you were in trouble,”

Stan went quiet at the simpleness of the answer, staring at him strangely. Now that Dipper thought about it, it was obvious what Stan had been referring to – there were concealed weapons all over this room, and his uncle had been extremely on edge lately. Add in a nightmare, and, well . . .

The baseball bat rolled to a stop by the foot of the bed.

“I’m sor-”

“You okay, kid?” Stan said at the same time, looking closely at him.

Everything he could respond with seemed to whoosh out of Dipper. _Was he okay._ Wasn’t that a thing to ask. It was such an enormous, overbearing question that he couldn’t even muster up the energy for a quick, instinctive lie right then and there.

Into the silence, Stan swung his legs out of bed and felt the nightstand for his glasses. He put them on, still intent on Dipper. It occurred to the boy that it might not be dark enough for him to get away with seeming like he _was_ okay. It was a bright night, and if he could see Stan, then at this range Stan could definitely see Dipper’s most likely red, teary eyes and harrowed appearance. He should back out now. He should go back to his and Mabe- go back to the attic. This was most certainly _not_ what someone looked like after a summer of being toughened up: of being slowly taught how to fight back, how to take a hit and dish one out right after. This was what someone at the exact opposite end of the spectrum looked like. Stan didn’t have time for that sort of thing, and Dipper wanted as little as possible to do with it too.

But he didn’t go. Maybe he was so tired that everything seemed awfully simplistic now, but he took a few more steps into the room because Stan had felt the need to reach in defence for a baseball bat a second ago. And Dipper didn’t like that something – _or_ _someone_ , he thought darkly – could make his uncle feel like that.

How was he supposed to help, though? He could barely help himself, he was failing at helping Mabel, at helping Great Uncle Stanford . . .

“I just-” His voice caught and he had to start again. “I don’t- do you ever think that we’re not making any difference?”

Stan looked shocked, but regardless was almost all the way through his reply before he stopped himself.

“Every damn day-”

He put a hand up to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. As the eye contact was finally broken, Dipper came back to himself a little bit. His own words registered with him, and then so did _Stan’s_ words, and he looked up at the ceiling and tried not to start hyperventilating and/or crying again.

“Is everything . . . I mean, did you need something, Dipper?”

Dipper kept staring upwards for a moment, and then wiped his nose and brought his gaze down to rest on his uncle’s hand on the mattress’s edge.

“Was it Bill?” he asked, and his voice was somewhat steady, like he was actually ready for the answer.

He could hear the grimace in Stan’s voice when he replied. “Yeah it was Bill, again. And before you ask, no, I did not make a deal with the one-eyed evil dream demon who’s been haunting us with the worst nightmares ever,”

“What do you mean ‘again’?” Dipper said, ignoring the sarcasm and jerking his head up to look Stan in the eye once more. “How long has he been visiting you for?” His breathing was starting to quicken. “What’s he been saying? Has he offered you anything? You know we can’t trust him, right? We can’t listen to anything he says, we can’t fall into his traps, he’s not going to help us get Mabel and Great Uncle Stanford back, he’s not going to do anything but make things worse, Stan please don’t make a deal, please you’ve gotta listen to me _he’ll kill us if we give him the chance_ -!”

“Hey, didn’t I _just_ say that I hadn’t made a deal with him?” Stan’s voice was alarmed as he knelt in front of Dipper and grabbed his shoulders to keep him upright. He hadn’t even realised he’d needed to be steadied. That lack of balance, of rightness, just seemed to be yet another thing that was missing from the world, that might never return ( _shutupshutupshutup_ ).

“I mean, I know I’m not above doing some shady things,” Stan was saying, “but that guy doesn’t even _try_ to hold up his end of the bargain. Not even a little bit. Even I can tell that that’s a bad investment,”

Bill Cipher: a bad investment. Well, that was just about the greatest summary of him that Dipper had ever heard. He laughed. It was mirthless, and more of a choke, and he was still reeling from the revelation that Stan had been having dreams too, but something inside him that had been corkscrewing out of control stilled. He made himself take slower breaths, his heartrate responding in kind, and let the grounding feel of the hands on his shoulders draw him back to the dark room.

“There we go,” said Stan, giving his right arm a squeeze as he finished talking about . . . something. Pugs and smuggling came to mind. The words had helped, that’s all Dipper knew.

The blank, oppressive urge to sink to the floor and start sobbing returned.

_Oh. Hello misery, my old friend._

Stan was sitting him down on the edge of the bed. He felt the mattress sag a moment later, his uncle taking a seat beside him.

“I uh . . . I think he’s probably been coming at me for just as long as he’s been coming at you. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

It took Dipper a moment to remember the first question that had spilled from his mouth. He nodded at the floor, acknowledging the answer. It didn’t really help anything. He shouldn’t have bothered asking.

Something about it stuck out, though.

“Wait. How do you know he’s been visiting me?”

A shift of weight and the vaguest of shadows on the floor told Dipper that Stan was rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

“Well, you’re-” he sighed again – “you’re not exactly quiet, kid,”

In other words, he’d been shouting in his sleep.

“So I’ve, y’know, done what I can,”

In other words . . . Stan had come and calmed him down before now? He didn’t remember that. He must have still been asleep, or close to. He wished he hadn’t been.

“Guess I haven’t really helped much, huh?” Stan muttered. 

In other words, Dipper knew the feeling. But he also knew that that wasn’t true.

“You helped me just then,” he volunteered quietly. Stan didn’t respond.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been helping you,” Dipper continued in a cracked voice, still addressing the floor, and Stan turned to him, startled.

“What? Dipper, that’s not your job-”

“I’m sorry I’ve been so useless. I’m sorry I can’t do more. I’m sorry I tried to stop you from opening the portal the first time, and I’m sorry I ruined thirty years of your work and I’m sorry-” The list went on and on and Dipper hadn’t even realised just how much there was for him to be sorry about until the unstoppable litany of stifled distress started pouring out of him. Eventually he wasn’t even apologising to Stan, he was apologising to Mabel, and to his parents, and to himself, and to Stanford, and there was _so so much_ to be sorry about and he just needed Stan to know that he _was_.

But Stan wasn’t having any of it.

“Whoa whoa whoa, _Dipper. None_ of that is your fault, you hear me?” He said fiercely, putting one arm around Dipper’s shoulders in a way that would have been protective, if everything that Dipper needed protecting from hadn’t been inside his head. His other hand gently but firmly turned Dipper’s face away from the floor, making sure he was looking at Stan for what he said next and oh, great, now he was full-on crying on top of everything else.

“ _It’s not your fault._ It’s mi- it just happened, okay Dipper? Yeah, it was the worst, most awful possible thing that could have happened, but it _wasn’t your fault._ It was just a stupid, cruddy thing that happened. And we gotta keep going until we fix it again. Ah, jeez,” Stan momentarily removed his hand to grab the box of tissues on the bedside table, handing them to Dipper, who grabbed a handful and used the excuse to hide his face again. Stan pulled him against his side.

“It just happened,” he impressed on him again. “And no one blames you for any of it, least of all me. And if anyone _does,_ then that’s your cue to punch ‘em a good one, and then you come and get me so I can as well. And then Wendy’ll probably want a go, and maybe Soos could give them one of his glares while we’re taking turns at it.”

Dipper snorted wetly, using the last tissue and dropping them all over the floor. Stan seemed encouraged at this response, and went on, “And I don’t think there’s anyone who’d be stupid enough to get in between them and Mabel when she gets back,”

The sobs returned full force. “But what if she _doesn’t?_ ” he practically wailed into Stan’s shirt. He felt the arm around his shoulders tighten. It was something he’d been thinking about over and over, and since Stan had been doing this for thirty years longer than Dipper had, he was sure it plagued his mind as well. But neither of them had so far dared to say it out loud. “What if they aren’t there when we open the portal again? What if they’re really gone?”

Wordlessly, Stan rested his chin on top of his head. He didn’t seem to know what to say.

When he did speak, it wasn’t any of the blind reassurance with zero meaning behind it that Dipper had expected.

“You can’t think like that, Dipper.” He murmured. “I know how easy it is, _believe me,_ I know, and I know that you can’t always avoid it. But those thoughts . . . they get really close to convincing you that you should just give up altogether. And that is not an option.” Stan pulled back, handing Dipper a few more tissues as he looked at him again. “Besides, I’ve seen you and your sister pull off some amazing things this summer, things that shouldn’t have been possible. So, I think if anyone can do this, it’s you two,”

The tissues were crumpled and allowed to fall to the floor. Dipper drew a shuddering breath.

“That’s it.” Stan encouraged. “I mean, it’s not as if the only things to have happened since then have been _bad_ , kiddo,”

“It’s not?” Dipper said bluntly. That was honestly news to him.

The smidgeon of confidence that had accompanied Stan’s statement evaporated. Put on the spot, he cast around the room for inspiration: Dipper saw him look at the partially open door, where he’d found his uncle in the clutches of a nightmare, at the bedside table, where the photo of him and Mabel had been moved from the basement, at the floor, littered with his tissues, and then at Dipper himself.

Surprisingly, inspiration was found.

“Yeah, it’s not.” Stan removed his arm from around Dipper and reached down to the toy he was still holding in one hand. He ruffled the axolotl’s frills. “You found this little guy, didn’t you?”

Dipper gave a watery half-smile that lasted maybe half a second. “‘S’on Mabel’s bed,”

“And, uh-” Stan looked around again, but ended up turning back to the fluffy toy. “Well . . . he’s not covered in snot or something, so that’s a bonus.” He grinned as Dipper huffed out another shaky laugh.

“So, the only good thing to have happened recently is me finding this snotless axolotl?”

“Uh, no, definitely not.” Stan faltered again, and recovered with, “Y’know, it’s time for you to start pulling your weight kid, I’ve already come up with two things. You’re falling behind, yeesh,”

“Alright, alright.” The room was examined for a third time. Stan was right, it was pretty devoid of obviously positive things. Grasping at straws, he thought about what had happened _before_ he’d fallen asleep.

“Soos finished fixing the control room,” he offered, wiping his nose again.

Stan nodded speculatively. “Did a good job on it, too. Don’t think I’ve ever seen it so tuned up,”

“And – and McGucket’s already got all the support structures set up,” Dipper said, warming to the topic.

“Rebuilding the thing the first time would’ve been so much easier if he was around to help,” Stan said with just the barest hint of bitterness. “Y’know how many first-aid kits I went through just from the support structures cutting me up?”

Dipper shook his head.

“ _Five. Five_ entire first-aid kits,” Stan said over Dipper’s disbelieving laugh. “Mostly from the tools, actually. Speaking of, have you seen Wendy use that hammer? Boy, and I thought she was good with an axe,”

“Yeah, she’s been amazing!” Dipper agreed enthusiastically. “The way she scaled the wreckage and got all those pulley systems set up? And she carried that huge piece of machinery like it was nothing! She looks really good in tank top,” he added wistfully, and this time it was Stan who laughed.

“And those girls, Candy and Grenda: you remember how they distracted that builder while we stole his forklift?”

“And that time Soos rigged up a way for Waddles to bring snacks down to the basement?”

One by one, the memories filtered in, shining against a backdrop of grief. Dipper could remember the exasperation on his uncle’s face as he argued with McGucket about the built-in racoon den, feel the lead and ink staining his fingers when he’d finished helping with hastily written assembly instructions.

“See? Not all bad,” Stan said during a lull in the exchange. “We’re getting there,”

It only took a few moments of reflective silence for all the pain to come back and hit Dipper, like it had been lying in wait for another opening. His tentative smile wobbled and faded. They’d been using the memories to distract themselves from the real issue, after all.

“We’ve got all the Journals this time,” Stan reminded him (or maybe himself), seeing the change. “And we’ve got help, too. Not to mention that both me _and_ McGucket have already built this thing once before.”

“So how much longer?” Dipper whispered.

“At this rate? Not long, kid. Maybe another month.”

He didn’t know if he could do this for another month. Heck, he’d _just_ had a meltdown, and they weren’t even halfway done.

“. . . you remember all that stuff you tried to teach me over the summer? About fighting back?” Dipper managed. He didn’t even wait for Stan to affirm it before continuing. “M’Sorry I couldn’t keep it up for longer,”

“Dipper . . .” sighed Stan. Dipper went back to staring at the floor. “For one thing, we just had a whole shebang about how you’ve got nothing to be sorry about, and that _includes_ this.” He prodded Dipper in the chest with a finger, making him look back up.

“And for another,” Stan went on, “I don’t know what you’re talking about with this ‘couldn’t keep it up’ business. Far as I can see, you’ve never stopped,”

“That’s not true,” Dipper said, shaking his head.

“Oh yes, it is,” insisted Stan. “This is what fighting back looks like, buddy.” His voice softened as he tilted his head at the mounds of tissues on the floor, the childish toy in Dipper’s lap, the swelling around his eyes. “You’re not giving up, are you?”

Dipper shook his head immediately.

“Then you’re still fighting back.” Stan said simply. “There’s no middle ground with this. And hey, so what if you needed some help beating this one back? That’s what you’ve got me for: hitting all the things that wanna hit you.” He nudged Dipper gently, but there was nothing joking in the gesture. “No one ever said you had to do it alone, and believe me, you don’t want to. In fact, I’m not gonna _let_ you. Ever. You’re stuck with me, you got that? You’re never gonna get rid of me. In fact, I’ll still be hanging around when you’re eighty, beating off the weak, elderly, pensioner bullies in your retirement home with a stick,”

His throat was closing up so much that it was hard to make any sound, let alone the laugh for which Stan kept speaking to him until it had croaked its way out, but Dipper still managed it. He had to shut his eyes tightly and bury his head in his hands for a while to try and keep the sheer, roiling surge of various emotions in him contained, but Stan kept rubbing his back and didn’t seem to care when it spilled out for the umpteenth time that night.

More tissues, more tossing.

“I’ve thought – thought of another good thing,” Dipper said, straightening up again. “You. I’m glad you’re still with me,”

Stan made an involuntary little noise and spent some time facing the bedroom door and adjusting his glasses, fingers frequently ducking underneath the lenses.

“Sap,” he muttered after a while. Dipper wordlessly shuffled closer on the bed and wrapped his arms around his uncle’s torso as far as they would go.

“What is this, a hug?”

Dipper nodded into his shirt.

“Good,” Stan mumbled, holding him back just as tightly.

“There’s one more thing I want you to know,” Stan said. “Sheesh, hope I’m not gonna turn into one of those wise old mentor types that haveta go off and be hermits - wait, that’s not it.” Dipper felt him shake his head. “Don’t listen to that part. Listen to _this_ , ‘cause if you’re anything like me – and I know you are – you’ve definitely been thinking it.” He paused, making sure Dipper was really paying attention. He was. He could feel himself tensing up in preparation for whatever was coming.

Addressing him seriously, one hand on his shoulder pulling him back to look him in the face, Stan said, “Don’t you _ever_ wish that you’d been the one to fall through the portal instead – as if you deserve to be here any _less_ than she does, okay? No matter how much I want your sister back, I would never trade you out for her, understand? I would _never_ take that deal,”

All the strength went out of Dipper in one fell swoop, like some great emotional vacuum in the sky had suddenly been aimed directly at him, sapping all his remaining energy, and he slipped forwards against the hand holding him upright, forehead thumping again into his uncle’s shirt and a by-now familiar embrace encircled him and soothing words washed over him and he – he couldn’t even _speak_ with how many things were tumbling through his mind that he wanted to say – denials about how he hadn’t thought that, cries about how he had, insistences that he was fine, assurances that Stan didn’t need to feel that way either. It was all stammered out in a jumble of half-sentences and disjointed words that were all patiently taken in and smoothed over like the rhythm of Stan’s hand through his hair.

Eventually, he woke up again, even though he couldn’t remember falling asleep. Gravity was shifting slightly, which was probably why he’d stirred. A pillow met his head, and the softness of a duvet was pulled up over his shoulder. There was a pause, and then a cuddly, frilly thing was placed carefully near his face. Even in his dreamlike state, Dipper knew it was important, so he tucked it in closer. Before the passive nothingness took him in again, he felt the mattress dip, something substantially heavier than he was sinking into it in front of him. He felt insulated, sheltered, the harbour of safeness only growing around him as a large, warm hand settled on his shoulder.

He couldn’t imagine the dreams reaching him here.

But they did.

But they were different.

The room was small, dark, and warm. A few figures shuffled around inside. Two were in quiet, serious conversation, but the most negativity that could be gleaned from it was due to some worry, which was being assuaged. The discussion drew to a close, and one of the figures left, warm light shining briefly through the crack in the doorway. The other bent over the cot in the corner, lowering a shape into it and then sitting on the edge after pulling up the sheets. Methodically, a coat was hung up on a post, and a small pair of boots placed at the foot of the bed.

_Mabel?_

The third shape shifted awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. He went to say something, but the person – the conscious person – by the bed cut him off curtly. He left soon after, the atmosphere relaxing slightly as he did, even though there was no reason for it to be tense in the first place. Nothing bad was going to happen tonight.

His sister’s hand rested on top of the sheets, and the thumb of a larger, six-fingered one traced over her knuckles. Ever so slowly, the movements stilled, the breaths in the room evening out moment by moment. The upright figure’s head drooped.

 _Mabel?_ Dipper asked again.

With a start, the man woke up again, looking around the room. Seeing nothing, he sighed and rubbed his eyes, standing. He made his way to the door and reluctantly left, sending a last glance back at his niece. A presence that Dipper hadn’t been aware of until it moved followed.

Mabel was sleeping, but something was holding her like that, so she wouldn’t be able to hear anything he said. He didn’t know how he knew that, but it didn’t worry him. This didn’t feel like one of Bill’s tricks, where there was too much information firing at him from all angles, harsh sensory inputs assaulting him at all times, nothing but terror filling him up. This was real, processable, and for now, safe.

He wanted more than anything to talk to his sister, to hug her again. And he could, but she wouldn’t remember it. More than that though, he _needed_ to let her know that he was coming for her, that they were still fighting to get her – and Stanford – back. That it would be okay.

He curled up next to her on the cot. A lump in his side kept him from getting comfortable, and drawing it out, he found a smiling pink axolotl, its frills waving friendlily, its tail swaying. He placed it between them, watching as it nuzzled his finger and rested its head on Mabel’s arm.

 _Not long now,_ he promised her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT chapter will be back to Mabel and Ford :)


End file.
